


Repentance

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Choking, Creampie, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gaslighting, Gun Violence, Humiliation, Knifeplay, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, involuntary voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: After a long day, the first thing she does is strip out of her clothes, sometimes, she doesn't even wait to get to her bedroom to do it. And sometimes, she forgets to close the window. The open window doesn't bother her—but it bothers him.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	Repentance

**Author's Note:**

> My first piece after a short hiatus! It definitely veered towards something much darker than I had in mind, but I'm not complaining. This was a little tricky for me to write, mainly with my own writing struggles, and I apologize if it's a bit of a mess and all over the place. Gotta pick up somewhere, amiright?
> 
> _Messing with my head again  
>  You had your heart set on me  
> But these feelings, they come and go  
> And they come so easily_
> 
> _Why do I, baby? Why do I?  
>  Love the touch but never love the feeling?_

She shoves the key in the lock, pushing intermittently with her shoulder before it finally gives way and flings open with a cringe inducing creak in it’s rusted hinges. Taking a fleeting moment to think about how she should probably go about fixing that— _then again, she wouldn’t be able to hear when the infamous clown sneaked his way into her apartment like the vagrant he is_ —she disregards it and steps inside her humble abode. The door closes with a graceful nudge of her foot, the sweltering heat of the quaint room already working it’s way into her exhausted bones and she’s kicking her shoes off, beginning her daily routine of stripping down to her underwear right in the middle of her living room. 

She works on the button of her jeans and absently acknowledges the window; the drapes are pulled back, blinds up and it’s wide open, letting in a sparse draft that feels more alike to the rush of a hairdryer turned on low. It’s something, though. She shimmies out of her pants and lets out a small sigh. Her blouse is next, tossed on her worn down sofa before she’s raising her arms above her head, an elegant curve in her spine as she stretches her sore body with a soft groan at the pull of tension in her muscles.

_Should really close that window._

But then again, what would she do without that minuscule bit of draft that tickles against her bare skin? She doesn’t like the idea of sitting around in her own puddle of sweat, and it wasn’t like there was anyone there...She contemplates for all of two seconds, before she’s pivoting on a heel and sauntering into the bathroom, working through her routine of after-work wind down.

She sets about taking off her makeup, reaching out to pluck the package of makeup remover wipes which sit beside three metal tins, shining in the dimmed lighting in a way that catches her attention, smeared over their burnished surface is an achromatic array of colors. She discards the remover wipes and reaches for one of the tins, hesitating over the red one. Its lid’s not sealed completely and she pictures for a moment J; he must have been in an excited rush this morning (a good mood for him is the equivalent of a bad omen for Gotham), couldn’t have been an irritated (the not unpleasant ache between her legs was a clear testament of his mood) and she smiles as she picks it up.

She turns it in her hand, ponders for a brief moment where he even gets the stuff, then she opens it. There’s a dime sized bit of silver in the middle, used down to the bottom of the tin but there’s plenty more around the edges. Without thinking, she swipes her forefinger around tacky substance, coloring it bright red. Glancing at the mirror, she catches her reflection: a full face of makeup, but her lips are bare, nude. Setting the container down, she leans over the sink and brings her finger to her mouth, swiping it across the plush flesh and coloring them crimson. There’s a moment there where she thinks about coloring outside the lines, going the length of her cheeks and making a faux Cheshire grin of her own, but she doesn’t. She presses her lips together, shifts back and admires herself with a cheeky grin. 

_It’s a pretty color when it isn’t associated with murder._

_Or perhaps,_ because _it is._

She decides not to think too much about that, about how every so often her mind would veer into something sinister, imagery and idealizations that never plagued her before she was at the whim of a homicidal clown. Closing the metal tin properly, she instills an extra amount of deft to her movements, as though to cover her own tracks and hide her shenanigans. He’s never given her cause to steer clear of his greasepaint, but she’s never tested the theory, either. _Better safe than sorry_ , she thinks. A motto that is also a new addition to her chaotic lifestyle.

Just as she reaches for the makeup wipes, she hears the creak of rusted hinges, and the heavy steps she could never mistake for anyone else. It makes her heart leap into her throat, that fleeting moment of time between his trek from the front door to the bathroom wasted as she freezes with an ingrained fear, and, sickeningly enough, _excitement_. She catches her reflection once more, the red garish against her skin and then he's there, standing in the doorway. He's looming, reeking of gasoline and the sour bite of sweat and blood. It's such a strange thing, how she's come to love the distinctly filthy scent of him, how it pushes an involuntary wave of lust through her. It's something that would have seemed asinine months ago, and sometimes when clarity and common sense returns to her, it still does. 

She steadies her breath, and then she thinks about how much of a mute point that is; she's convinced he can sense her anxiety and fear in the air, like it vibrates and he can feel the tremors, a sixth sense with the sole purpose of honing in on it. He's stripped down to his vest and dress shirt, his trench and blazer more than likely thrown over her sofa to join her own clothes, arms crossed over his broad chest with his shoulder against the frame. Casual. 

He quirks his head, temple against the solid wood with a winsome innocence that unnerves her, a small curve of his lips in a barely there smirk. She's reminded of the way people look at puppies and kittens, when they see something wholesome and sweet. _Wholesome and sweet_ —blasphemous in regards to him. 

"I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched your stuff—" 

His eyes narrow, darkness enveloping the whites to create an abyssal effect.

"Never said you _couldn't_." He starts, she relaxes a minuscule amount. "But I never said you _could_ , either." And then she stiffens again, and he does this often, she's used to it. Mentally whip-lashed is a common state of mind when he's close, but it never ceases to light her nerves on fire with fearful anxiety. 

His pink tongue pokes from between his own crimson lips, dragging along the forked scar there as he reaches out towards her face. He's not wearing his gloves, his nails are overgrown and packed with dirt, and she flinches when he touches the pad of his thumb against her lower lip. 

"You seem a little... _nervous._ " He observes, dragging her full lip downwards in a mock pout. "There somethin' _else_ you should be saying sorry for?" 

She shakes her head and finds that her whole body is shaking, too. A wicked combination of fear and arousal floods her veins. But she's stuck on the way he said it; a nudge, a coaxing to admit something, like a child caught in the act, a parent teaching lessons on honesty— _it's okay, sweetheart. Did you break the vase? You won't be in trouble if you did_ —but she cannot find anything that would fit the mold, nothing to fess up to, but she's sure there's _something_. There's _always_ something. 

"No, sir." She breathes, and that _sir_ just tacks itself right on there, instinctively on her tongue with the close proximity of him. He hums, low and contemplating, drawn out as he absently swipes his thumb across her lip. She can't read his expression, it makes her wish he were angry or sadistically mirthful, something to gauge him with. 

"The red looks good on you." He says, unexpectedly soft. _"_ Looking picture per-fect, doll. But, uh—it's _missing_ something." He steps into the bathroom, his large frame making the enclosed space feel suddenly claustrophobic. Setting his hands on her shoulders, he maneuvers her to face the mirror again, placing himself behind her. She looks at him in the reflection, finds herself endeared to the way he towers above her, how her body eclipses only half of his, and then he leans down and plucks the red greasepaint tin off the counter. She watches as he opens it, swipes his fore and middle around the circumference before capping it (it's not completely closed again) and tossing it back onto the counter. Then, he leans down and levels his mouth with her ear. 

"Why don't we, uh, put a _smile_ on that face, hmm?" That makes her heart stutter. He says it lowly, his voice rasp and holding a wicked cadence that makes shivers trickle down her spine. Unnerving; she's heard him say those same words to someone moments before sticking a blade in their mouth and ripping it through the thick flesh of their cheeks. Instead of a blade, he raises his hand, those red mottled fingers and she's reminded of blood again, and then he averts his attention from her physical presence to her reflected counterpart.

She holds her breath. 

He starts at the left corner or her mouth, pressing down firmly and swiping up along the contour of her cheek. It's a thick stripe, reminiscent of the more gnarly and protruding scar of the two on his face. Once he's finished that side, he reaches across her face and draws on the other; it's more controlled, thinner and longer. Her heartbeat is humming in her ears now, she's overwhelmed with his presence; his chest pressed against her back, the steady rise and fall of his ribs as he breathes, the heady scent of him permeating the small bathroom and she feels trapped. His off hand slithers around her naked stomach and pulls her closer, fingers splayed to feel every inhale and exhale she gives, the way he wraps himself around her has her entranced.

He looks like a monster, nuzzling his ghoulishly painted face against her neck, and she looks like a hapless prey, tilting her head to the side as though realizing that there is no fight to be had. She's a goner. 

She catches herself in the mirror, observes the Cheshire grin he's painted on her, and for some reason she can not place, it fills her with a sense of dread. His paint marbled hand dips from her lips to slowly wrap around her neck, leaving red fingerprints on the soft skin as his arm around her waist tightens with firm pressure. Then he growls. It's throaty, low and it amplifies that worrisome feeling in her to the point she's squirming.

Something's not right, she can sense it. 

"There—that's better, don't you think? All _dolled_ _up_ and ah, ready for the show. _"_

She doesn't have time to think about it, he doesn't give her time. His hold on her stomach stiffens, his grip around her throat constricts, and then he's picking her up. She catches the look on her face moments before he drags her out of the bathroom; terrified, fingers wrapped around his wrists, blanched skin that contrasts the lurid red of her newly acquired Glasgow grin. He has the decency to put most of her weight on his forearm, her ribs digging painfully into the taut muscle, the hand around her throat acting more as a brace and keeping her still as he makes his way into her quaint living room. She thinks he's going for the couch, but he bypasses it and heads right towards the open window, curtains swaying idly with the warm breeze. 

"Y'know, at first, I was thinkin' you didn't realize—" He begins, and she squirms, tugs his arms and gives a small whine. "But then I thought; no. No, _no_. I pick 'em better than that! You're a wicked little thing—you _know_ what you're doing. I can appreciate that, to a, uh— _extent_. But then—ah, hold _still_ ," She twists in his arms, her sense of fight or flight kicking in with the urge to flit as far as she can, and _there's something wrong with me_ , she thinks, because beneath that abject terror, there is that spark of arousal that catches flame whenever he is close. "Then you go and _lie_ about it." His grip around her neck squeezes, so quick and sudden it feels as though he pierced her skin with the calloused and dull surface of his fingertips. 

"I didn't—" 

"Oh, have some _accountability_ , darling." He jerks her around in his arms, faces her towards the open window and she sees them; across the alleyway, through the open blinds directly parallel to her own apartment is three men, bound and gagged. They're wide-eyed, fearful and one of them is crying. Behind them, though obscured by the angle, is two men. She can see the guns in their hands and the lower half of a clown mask. J leans forward, presses himself against her to wedge her waist against the windowsill and deliver a dull pain against her hips. "You've been putting on a show _every day_ , haven't you?" 

Suddenly it dawns on her; she was being watched. Every day, every time she stripped down in her apartment, every time she thought about closing that _damn_ window, she was being watched. Her attention flickered across the men's faces, the way they glanced at her to make eye-contact, how they pleaded with duct-tape muffled cries before looking past her to him.

"J—"

He shushes her, grinds himself against her backside and slides his grip up until he's holding her chin between his fingers.

"Why don't we, uh—play out the _grand_ finale?"

His arm around her waist loosens, and she's stuck on the men watching, on how they look on with terror, disgust, pitifully begging for something she has no control over, and she feels his hand, hot and rough with the absence of his glove gliding up her heaving rib-cage before dipping beneath the band of her bra and giving a fierce tug. She gasps as the fabric tears, feels her skin heat up like her blood's boiling with the warmth of his body against hers, and beneath that wave of mortified she can feel intrigue. It's rising to the surface with the way he grinds himself against her, with the pleasant sensation of her nipple between his long fingers, the twist that adds a flourish of pain.

And then there's _them_ ; onlookers, involuntary voyeurs, witnesses to something debauched and she thinks about how they watched her. How they lusted over her and how, now, they see who she _belongs_ to, and that clarity that came with fear is ebbed away gradually with the thought of someone else seeing him fuck her, seeing that she is untouchable say for the likes of _him._ She pictures how she marveled at his body behind hers in the mirror. He looks like a monster, he is inhumanly terrifying and those sinister thoughts from before resurface.

She wants them to see. She wants them to _know_. 

She thinks, as he leans down and speaks lowly into her ear, _there is_ definitely _something wrong with me_. 

"Make it _good_ , babygirl—it's the most _expensive_ show they'll ever see." 

She knows the implications; It's cruel, malevolent, absolutely _evil_. She's come to terms with his depravity, and she finds that the notion, when done by him, is not surprising. Rather, it's almost endearing (and she ponders this as he kneads her breasts so hard his nails threaten to piece the skin), the lengths he would go to show what's _his_. The idea of insisting innocence seems futile, and the steadily increasing arousal that fogs her senses beckons for the show to go on. 

She pushes her hips back against his, feels the solid length of his erection though the coarse fabric of his pinstripe slacks, and gives a moan. A huff of a laugh escapes him, breathing hot against the junction of her neck, his teeth bared to bite but he stays the motion in favor of a jeering remark. 

"Ah—see? You like this, don'tcha? This the _endgame_ for you? You _wanted_ me _mad_ —" He abandons his brutal knead of her breast in favor of shoving his hand down the front of her panties unceremoniously, pressing down hard on her swollen clit before venturing further to the soaked heat of her cunt. " _yeah_ , it is. You're dripping wet, _sweetheart_." He bites the words with a lilt of vitriol, but she's distracted, her attention flickering to the three men and their expressions of horrified curiosity. Like they want to look away, but morbid fascination keeps them tethered to the scene at hand. 

He sinks two fingers inside her and curls them, tugging mercilessly until her hips follow the movement.

"I knew you were into some, uh— _dirty_ things, doll...But this takes the cake." He snarls. She whines in response and bucks against his hand. J completes his prior act of sinking his teeth into the soft palette of her neck, driving a sharp pain through the salacious pumping and curling of his fingers inside her, the startling addition of a third finely tuning her whine into a high keen. She fights the urge to screw her eyes shut as the bleary image of their hostages look on from across the way. It's like his touch smothers any semblance of modesty she has, scraping off that self-preservation before dipping her into a vat of unhindered desperation. 

"P- _Please_ —ah!—I w-want _you_ -" She stumbles over the words, finds it hard to think when there's three sets of eyes watching her fall apart with just his touch. He flicks his tongue out and traces over the indents his teeth left behind, before bringing his mouth to her ear. 

"That's _sweet_. We all want _something_ , don't we? You wanna know what _I_ want?" He's perpetually pressing on her g-spot, it's steadily driving her mad. "I want to teach _you_ a lesson on _consequence_." 

With a lack of grace he pulls his hand away from her, fingers slipping from her throbbing cunt and leaving her to feel empty in their absence. She shudders at the loss. 

A rustle of movement, the sound of a his switchblade opening, and then she feels the cold bite of it against her lower right flank, slipped between the fabric of her panties and her sweat slicked skin. He cuts through swiftly, letting them fall down her legs and that warm breeze through the window ghosts along her to deliver a flourish of goosebumps. He's trailing the knife down her spine, pressing down hard enough to threaten blood. She's panting, trembling as he speaks. 

"I like to think I'm a pretty _lenient_ guy—" He breaks off with a short, subdued laugh, "Wouldn't you say? _But_ —there are some things I just _can't_ let slide, babygirl..." He presses harder, piercing into her midway down her back. The sensation draws a moan that's both parts wanton and agonized, her body cantering back to press against him, searching for more pleasure to mitigate the pain. "Going out of your way to _show_ yourself off—to make me angry. _Lying_ about it—just so you can get _fucked_ in front of your little _audience—_ here I thought _I_ was the _kinky_ one." Drawing the blade back, she gives a small noise of relief, that sound twisting into a strangled groan as he leans himself over her and presses the rough fabric of his vest against the freshly split skin. 

"Well? Go on—" He gestures towards the three men across the way with his knife, "make it _worth_ their _while_. Tell 'em what you are— _a little slut_. Tell 'em how your little _game_ is gonna be the reason they're face down in a ditch two hours from now." His voice drops midway through, a growl that effectively terrifies both her and the men, their eyes widening at his implications of his statement. She takes a moment to find the words. Drowning in his presence, in her need for him, adrenaline heightening her senses until she's desperate to feel him, horrifyingly aroused with the situation and deliriously conflicted. 

"I-I'm a l-little slut—I-" She stutters, making direct eye contact with one of the men. He's crying (they're all crying, at this point) and her words taper off when he knits his brows and pleads with his eyes. They're far enough apart that she can't make out the color, she thinks they're blue. J snickers, and then with a startling swiftness he plunges the knife into the windowsill, sticking it with a solid _thunk_. She jumps at that, he grabs her face and presses his fingers into the hollows of her cheeks. 

"Come on—no time for cold feet, we haven't gotten to the best part yet. Let's, uh, _paraphrase_. Say: _You get to_ die _because I'm a little_ slut _who needs to be taught a lesson_." He says, belittling. She breathes in deeply, it rattles in her lungs and she registers how he brings a hand between them, how she can hear the familiar sound of a zipper being pulled. 

"Y-You get to d- _die_ —" She flinches as she says it, at the way they look at her, at the way J rubs the head of his cock along her slick folds to stagger her already collapsing thought process. "b-because I'm a little s-slut who—ah!" He pushes in quick, stretches her and fills her tight heat until his hips are flush against her ass. He exhales deeply, it's shaken but catches steady with a low growl. 

"Who _what?"_ He demands. It feels as though his nails are steadily cutting into her cheeks, and it's hard to concentrate, the rest of her given script floating away in the smoke of her burning mind. He's rocking himself against her, gracing her aching cunt with the salacious stretch of his cock.

"W-who needs— _mmph!_ —to be taught a l- _lesson!"_

"That's _right_." Releasing his grip on her face, he pats her cheek harshly with a saccharine tone. 

"Let's start with this—" His hands are moving, one reaching up to wrap her hair around his fist, tugging, the other dipping down and hooking her leg behind the knee until she's balancing on one foot. She gives a surprised squeak as he turns them far enough to provide an angle for their involuntary voyeurs, her hands reaching out to catch herself on the cut in angle of the wall. He maneuvers her so that her knee is on the windowsill, splaying her thighs and giving him deeper access as he starts fucking her without a beat of hesitance. "Who do you belong to?" 

His voice is steady and collected, like he's more interested in reminding her than he is being inside her. The answer comes quick, second nature at this point. 

"You! I belong to you!" She's absorbed in the pleasure, her lids closing as her head droops between her shoulders. J gives a fierce yank of her hair, jerking her back to attention and wrapping her hair further around his grasp until his knuckles are flush against her scalp. He turns her attention back to the window, she sees the mortified expressions of those three men and it thrusts a wave of something akin to raw electricity through her, her skin prickles with goosebumps, her stomach flips up high into her chest, she clenches around his cock involuntarily to draw out a stifled groan from him. 

"Looking for _specifics_ , doll—" He grunts, finding a hold on her hip to pull her back against him. The obscene slap of skin and the subdued labor of his breathing is vividly clear against her ears. She can't hear the men sobbing into duct tape anymore, and if she weren't forced to look at them, she might have forgotten they were there. But they are; they're watching and she sees how one of them looks away, how their masked captor presses the barrel of his Glock against the back of his head in warning. 

She must have taken too long to answer, because his hand against her waist smooths over the damp skin of her back before pressing harshly against the laceration he decorated her with moments prior. It's jarring; a burning agony that travels the length of her spine with the pad of his thumb. It feels as though he's splitting it further. 

"The Joker—I b-belong to the J-Joker!"

“Bingo.” He grunts, fingers deftly slipping from her split back. He leans over her again, wraps that hand around her throat and squeezes. “You are _mine_. Your body is _mine_.” He says it slowly, punctuating with emphasis, and he slows his movements, gaining depth with each languid thrust of his hips. She struggles to breathe as he growls in her ear, “I don’t like sharing what’s _mine_.”

The gunshot pierces through her torpor, ringing in her ears. She screams, coming out as a strangled whine of a noise with his iron grip. The one with the eyes that might have been blue falls face first into the carpet, a sick gurgling noise erupting from his lips. She closes her eyes, tries to turn away but the combined grip of her throat and hair have her tethered in place, jerking her head to the side with a brute force that strains her neck.

“Ah, ta-ta— _consequences_ , babygirl. See what your little _game_ did?" He grunts, picks up his pace again and she can feel the shiver the whisks through him, the excitement that coils inside his stomach emerging in the form of his hand tightening around her neck. She feels like she's going to be sick; the man is lying on the floor, she can see his legs kicked out and sprawled, the other two are fraught, squirming and sobbing and she knew this would happen, she knew what he was going to do.

Yet, somehow, she didn't think he would _actually_ do it. 

_Never doubt him_ —an added mantra to her survival guide. 

"Speak up—your _audience_ can't hear you." He barks, yanking on her neck and jerking her higher. 

"Y-Yes!" She startles at the sudden shift, claws her nails against the wall as he fucks himself into her with reckless abandon.

She thought that horrified was a lost emotion, having spent so much time with him, witnessing the terrible and maniacal things he did conditioned her to it. That feeling, lurching inside her gut and threatening to flood her throat came back with unprecedented force. She thinks about how she should have set the record straight, plead her innocence but that wouldn't have changed the men's fates, and she has dreadful inclination it wouldn't have changed her's, either. 

No, she would be at his mercy every step of the way, until he decides he doesn't want to play with her anymore. She isn't sure which is worse; being subjected to his special brand of depravity for the unforeseeable future, or the day he decides he's bored of her, leaving no loose strings. The jarring blast of the gunshot and the sickening sight that accompanied it had flung her back to reality, delivered a sense of sanity she wishes was not there—it would give her an excuse for the moan that tumbles from her lips as he releases her neck and brings his fingers down to her clit.

Abject disgust worms it's way under her skin; how she still finds pleasure in him, how he can give her a front row seat to the repugnant extent of his actions and yet she finds herself pushing back against him, whining wantonly at the way he fills her, at the precise circling of his fingers against her throbbing clit. 

She always thought of him as more a monster than a man, herself the prey caught in the sharp snare of his blackened gaze—now, she worries she's not as innocent as she thought, every bite he tore her skin open with seeped his inhuman venom into her veins and now she's sick, she's twisted because she moans his name, craves that wicked pleasure he is so good at giving. The steadfast thrust of his hips and the depth of his movements offsets the animosity she wants to feel for him. She wants to hate him—stick the blade of his knife between the notches of his ribcage and twist it, deliver a modicum of his own twisted medicine, but she knows that he would thrive on the bitter taste of blood that would rise up his throat. 

There was no fight to be had; he would win every step of the way. 

With a low grunt he pulls her straight, his hand abandoning her swollen clit in favor of wrapping his solid forearm around her middle, pulling her back against him in time to his movements and offering a full view for their remaining spectators. From this angle, she can see the body, she can see the puddle of blood that pools around his head, a hue of crimson so dark it appeared black against the off-white of their once pristine carpet—she can feel his cock push against her g-spot with every brutal thrust he made, feel the pleasure rise inside her against her own will, forcing a litany of stuttering moans and whines from her throat. 

From her hazed peripheral, she sees him reach out, releasing her neck and granting her a burst of hot air that burns in her lungs. He grabs the knife from the windowsill, yanking it free with an urgency that coincides with the now frantic piston of his hips against her ass. He's close, she can tell by the way he moves, by the way his entire body trembles like he's struck with a bolt of pure white hot energy, on the verge of bursting. 

The knife is at her throat now; he presses it tight against her skin, forces her head upwards and she gives a startled cry, verging on tears. This isn't the first time he's done this; but this is different. This is fueled with detrimental anger, she can tell by the way his hand stopped quivering, that subdued signal of his climax shoved aside in favor of contemplation—she thinks, _'is this where he decides he's bored?'_

" _What do you say?_ " He grits out, his voice sounding condescending and belittling— _like earlier, she's like a child, he's teaching her lessons_ —she knows what he wants, she knows what to say, but the words are trapped in her throat, they're caught on the inevitable orgasm that threatens to tear through her. He's still going, he's not letting up, it aches in such a euphoric way, a debauched affliction she's only ever felt with _him_. 

He presses the knife harder, she can feel the sting as it slices into the thin skin over her trachea, thrusting liquid terror through her veins, pulsating in her ears like the drums of an ever rising climax, an impending doom. She cries out the first words that come to mind, the only words that manage to make it through the fearful lump in her throat. 

"I-I'm s- _sorry_ —J—p- _please!_ "

He snickers, hoists her straighter with his arm around her waist as she sagged forward, her body feeling leaden with the flood of emotions that drown her head. She whines as he does so, and he leans in and tuts. 

"No-no, no. You tell _them—_ you can show _me_ how _sorry_ you are, later." 

Her whine warbles into an outright sob— _this is just the beginning_.

This is just a show, an act, the interlude into something much more sinister than shooting three lousy voyeurs in the head. There's a moment there, a passing thought that sears into her mind and will forever be there—she wishes he would just kill her, and get it over with. He's going to push her to the point death would be a welcome friend, and he'll bring her back every time, play with her, break her, piece her back together. An endless cycle and she's trapped, she's caught in his snare because there's a part of her, that venom of his pulsing through her veins, that likes being rendered to pieces by him.

She hates him, she resents him—she never wants to know anyone else's touch but his. Her orgasm threatens to take hold once more, the persistent thrum of his cock against her g-spot rapidly filling her with full body tremors, scintillas of need bubbling in her stomach. 

"Better do it _quick_ —last call for, ah, _condolences_." He goads, keeping the knife at her throat still, steadily applying pressure to the point the sharp pain of it ekes into a perpetual warmth; she thinks it's her blood, bursting to the surface that makes it feel so warm, or maybe the adrenaline that courses through her veins, humming in her ears that's palliating that pain. She struggles to find her bearings, forces herself to glance once more at their voyeurs, the mess of them sobbing and panic stricken, pleading and remorseful. 

"I-I'm sorry." She gasps out, and it sounds empty, lacking. She's resigned to her fate— _no fight to be had_ —and they, looking on and helpless, are nothing more than a lesson to her now. She thinks she wants to feel sympathy for them, but there's not enough to go around. 

J nuzzles his face against her neck, smearing greasepaint against her sweat slicked skin in a gesture that adds to her discomfort in all aspects; it warms her, fans the ember of lust that is always residing in her core for him, and it churns in her stomach at the context. No one else would whisper, _'that's a good girl'_ in your ear, hot and intimate, with the looming threat of murder not ten feet away. She thinks no one else would moan in response, push back against him and beg for more, no one that hasn't been subject to his games as long as she has. 

She thinks: _I really am a goner, aren't I?_

He listens, he draws the knife away from her throat, drops it with a thud against the floor and wraps himself around her; there's something comforting about it, but it's a virulent type of ease, knowing who he is and what he's done. He kisses her neck, she steadies a hand against the wall and brings the other to him, tangling in the mess of faded green hair atop his head, damp with sweat. For a moment, she loses herself again. She flows with the rhythm of their bodies coming together, of his hands around her, holding her together when all she wants to do is fall apart. Quickly, he smooths a hand down her stomach once more and circles her clit, sharp rapid circles against her throbbing bud that, adjoined with the consistent ache of his cock buried deep, drives her over the edge. 

A high keen bursts from her lips, her back arching away from him, head dropping back against his shoulder as he hoists her higher. Her cunt spasms around him, drawing out a low moan as he quickly catches her face in his grasp, digging his un-gloved fingers into her cheeks. Through her lust muddled vision she sees the remaining two, on their knees, blurred figures that jolt forward crudely with the deafening ring of two more gunshots. She screams, but it sounds distant, the only noise that follows is the stuttering, low moan of J as he yanks her against him and buries himself deep. She can feel him shudder, feel the way his breath warms her neck as he huffs violently in the throes of his own orgasm, ripping through him suddenly as though the violence was his tipping point. 

He presses his forehead against her shoulder, absently kissing her there as she comes down from her high, back to reality. There's something warm on her face, and she reaches up and touches her cheek, smearing it against her smooth skin before bringing her fingers down and seeing it; blood. Her breath catches, throat constricting and suddenly she can't breathe, she can't move, a mess of nonsensical whimpers muttering from between her quivering lips and her rigid jaw. J pulls away, she doesn't register the sensation as he does so, she's struck with some debilitating concoction or horrified and disgust. His hold on her keeps her steady, and when he lets go, she crumbles. 

Somewhere in her subconscious, she can see him in her peripheral, fixing his slacks, adjusting his vest. At the forefront are her hands, vividly clear and stained red with a mix of greasepaint and blood, her face feeling sticky and taut as it dried, smeared across her skin with the way she wiped at her face, as though hoping to clean it away. Her breathing is rapid, burning in her lungs, and suddenly, she's being touched again. 

She jerks away from him, startled back to the moment as he crouches before her, his own face speckled with blood splatter. It doesn't bother him. 

"Hey—shush-sh-sh. _Look at me_." 

"J—" She begins, her voice breaking and her eyes stinging, the threat of tears imminent. He clicks his tongue, brings his hand to the back of her head and leans in, pressing their foreheads together. His skin is tacky, residual greasepaint and sweat and blood make him feel cold. 

"C'mon. No time to get, ah... _Sensitive_." He breathes out, nuzzling his nose against hers, bringing his mouth to her cheek and capturing a skinny tear before it reaches her jaw. She stiffens at his words, at the way he implores a strange comforting lilt despite the venom that backs them. "No pity-party for you—this was _your_ fault. You _know_ that." 

"I didn't—didn't want t-them to _die_." 

"Didn't you?" He pulls back then, and that facade of comfort is washed away with the way his black eyes harden, piercing. "You didn't have a _problem_ with it when I was _fucking_ you." He states, crudely. The way he brought his other hand to her face to cradle her jaw juxtaposes the bite in his voice. "You wanted this—don't forget the, ah... _lesson_ , babygirl. No one likes a _liar_." 

_She wanted them to see. She wanted them to_ know _._

_He's right._

"Now—" He starts up, and that high facetious tone is back, his palm patting her face on the side of rough. "School's not out _yet_. Let's ah, start with _lesson number two_ , hmm?" 

He tugs on her hair, she gives a cry, the sound of it like gravel with the rawness of her throat, the pull of the split skin there stinging. Her eyes follow as he picks up the knife dropped beside them, before bringing it to her face and teasing the tip of it against the corner of her mouth. He focuses on the knife, his expression dropping into a serious glare, the muscles in his jaw rolling beneath his paint smeared skin as he licks his lip and settles in. 

" _Repentance."_


End file.
